Atiana reached the huge doors and began pounding them with her fists. “Open! It is Atiana Vostroma! Open the gates!” She heard footsteps approaching from behind. “Please, hear me!” Her fists felt like mangled pieces of meat.
She turned around just before the men reached her, but her face was stung by dirt and stones as the wind picked up and swirled around her. It howled, and the only thing she could do was ward her face with her forearms and press backward into the door.
Suddenly she lost her balance, falling backward as the door opened behind her. She was grabbed by the elbow and pulled inward. The sound of the wind dropped. There was light, but her eyes stung so horribly from dust and dirt she couldn’t see.
The door slammed shut and several men secured it with three massive wooden beams. Atiana blinked, her eyes watering, but she could see by the lantern light a tall Aramahn man walking down the stairs. She recognized him as Jahalan, one of Khalakovo’s wind masters. Behind him came Ranos, who was bleeding from several cuts along his forehead. He looked fierce as his eyes met hers.
Atiana cringed as another cannon blast shook the room and trails of dust filtered down from the stone ceiling.
“The Maharraht,” Atiana began, unsure of what to say amidst all this madness.
“We know.” Ranos came to her side and took her arm in a painfully tight grip. “Come,” he said while leading her toward the inner gate, “the Duke would speak with you.”
Nikandr ducked as a canon blast struck the Vostroman yacht Olganya. For the first time, Nikandr noticed Zhabyn standing on the foredeck, watching the scene play out before him. His eyes met Nikandr’s momentarily as the streltsi led Nikandr toward the ship. His eyes were smug, but there was a tautness to his frame. He had not expected things to go so badly.
Several of the streltsi boarded the ship, but as Ashan was being led toward the gangplank, a horrendous rumble filled the eyrie. One moment the stone of the westernmost turret was bulging outward and the next its entire face, including the cannon emplacement, was tumbling to the ground. Nikandr felt it in his feet, in his chest and shoulders. Several streltsi were caught in the fall. Their bodies were dashed like pebbles upon the surf. A cloudo f dust exploded into the air, turning ochre and orange from the nearby fire.
Nikandr was shoved onto the ship by the streltsi. Ashan and Nasim were right behind him.
“Prepare to cast off!” Zhabyn yelled.
Before the last of the stones had settled into place, a massive form lumbered out of the cloud. The backs of its arms and legs were smooth, mottled stone. The front of it was dark as night and glittering. Its eyes twinkled, and to Nikandr it seemed to have singular purpose as it stalked forward.
Retreating from the palotza, the remaining Vostroman soldiers moved in formation, firing at the hezhan as they went. Many fell as they were shot by Khalakovan muskets, forcing them into an all-out retreat for the Olganya.
Behind the vanahezhan were several men dressed in the loose clothing and ragged turbans of the Maharraht. They reached the edge of the garden that bordered the eyrie. One of them was shouting and pointing toward the Olganya, and Nikandr knew he was pointing at Nasim. Ashan placed his body between the boy and the violence.
Several of the men on the Olganya — and even among the Khalakovan streltsi-began firing at the Maharraht instead of the hezhan. They had found a common enemy.
The hands of the Maharraht were gripped into tight fists as they walked, and the expressions on their faces were ones of concentration and even pain. Tufts of fabric lifted and tore free of their frames, but otherwise they seemed unaffected. Then a shot struck the closest-an aging man with a long white beard-and a bit of his cheek split from his face as if he were made of stone. Of all the Maharraht, he was the only one who had a glowing gem of jasper fitted within his turban. He was the closest to the vanahezhan, and it soon became clear that he was the one controlling the beast.
“Cast off!” Zhabyn shouted while Borund ordered their men to return to the ship.
The streltsi tried, but the hezhan lowered itself and placed fists the size of beer casks on the ground. The stone at its feet flaked like dried mud in the rare heat of summer. The effect spread, faster than the men could run, and soon it had swept beneath them. The loose stone shifted beneath the soldiers’ feet, and many of them slipped and fell. One slid with the sound of scraping gravel as he approached the gangplank. He slid off the edge of the perch and plummeted soundlessly downward.
Shots continued to fly.
“The one with the white beard!” Nikandr shouted.
Few heard at first, but then more and more concentrated their fire on him. The old warrior cringed, no longer able to move forward. Seeing their success, the remaining streltsi lined up near the palotza’s walls shouted “ Kozyol!” and fired at the wounded man. The Maharraht pulled his arms tight around himself in a vain attempt at protection as several musket shots bit deep. He fell to the ground, twitching as many more shots struck home, and then his gem went dim.
The vanahezhan reared back, shaking its head to and fro. It dropped to its knees and struck its head twice against the stone. Huge, echoing booms shook the courtyard. And then it stood and stalked toward the ship.
The blast of a cannon shook the deck of the ship. The shot tore into the creature’s chest. The center was pulverized, and the remains of its torso cracked into several large pieces. It crumbled into a heap, and the men, both Khalakovan and Vostroman, raised their fists in a rousing and unified cheer.
The respite had given the remaining Maharraht time to rush forward as the Olganya pulled away from the perch. Zhabyn’s dhoshaqiram sat at her post near the center of the ship, palms laid against the deck, giving lift to the windwood from which the ship had been made. The havaqiram stood just behind her, calling the winds to pull the ship back. He spared one hand to raise a wind near the perch, sending dust and stone to flying around the Maharraht.
Soroush, the one with the golden earrings running through the scarred remains of his ear, ran toward the ship, which had nearly cleared the perch.
“Halt!”
Nikandr turned in time to see Ashan shoving Nasim toward the windward gunwale, away from the Maharraht. Ashan then lunged forward and grabbed the circlet from the brow of the havaqiram.
The wind swirled. The sails snapped. The rigging swung wildly as Ashan took two loping steps toward the gunwale.
Soroush shouted a command in Mahndi. The Maharraht stalked forward, pushing aside the streltsi who stood in their way. Ashan picked Nasim up and then tipped backward over the gunwale. He was gone, lost from view, taken by the howling wind.
A moment later the wind pulled sharply at the skiff lashed to the edge of the Olganya ’s deck. It rocked against its restraints, slamming the deck louder and louder, until finally the moorings were ripped free. Then it was gone, just like Ashan and Nasim.
The streltsi had been in complete disarray with the Maharraht among them, but they had regrouped. A dozen stood near the stairs leading belowdecks. The front six kneeled, the back six stood. The sotnik shouted, “Fire!” and the guns cracked in unison. Four of the Maharraht were struck as they tried to leap free of the ship. The other two reached the perch and ran along its length. Soroush hopped onto the back of the other, who crawled down along the perch’s stone supports like an insect. He moved quickly downward toward the surf before Zhabyn’s streltsi could reload. Several fired once they had, but with the winds and the distance to their targets, their shots would be ineffective.
For several moments the only sounds were from the burning ships. Then Father’s voice called out from the eyrie. “Zhabyn!”
Zhabyn, for the first time, seemed unsure what to do. He measured the carnage around him. Perhaps in that one moment he had come to regret what he’d done, but then the look was gone and he strode across the deck toward the gunwale.
As Zhabyn stared downward, Borund moved closer to Nikandr, pistol in hand. What Zhabyn saw, Nikandr couldn’t guess. He said nothing-only stared-but he wa
s stiff, as if what he saw below had come as a complete surprise.
The Olganya had slipped toward the Tura, which was almost completely engulfed by fire. The bowsprit of the Olganya was momentarily caught in the rigging of the starward mizzenmast.
With most of the streltsi reloading, Nikandr ran for the bow.
Borund shouted behind him, “Nikandr, stop!”
He didn’t. He couldn’t.
A pistol fired.
Nikandr felt his shoulder flare in pain as he leapt for the rigging.
Ranos held Atiana’s arm in a tight grip as they made their way through the halls of Radiskoye. When they reached the long hallway that led to the eyrie, they found the Duke of Khalakovo standing behind a dozen streltsi, speaking with a man dressed in the uniform of a sotnik. The soldiers were filing outside, taking aim and firing on her father’s ship, the Olganya.
Before Ranos and Atiana could reach him, a rumbling shook the foundations of the palotza. It increased in intensity, and Atiana saw from the corner of her eye the crumbling of one of the palotza’s turrets. It happened at an impossibly slow pace, as if everything were caught in honey.
Then the leaded glass within the row of tall windows crashed inward. Atiana raised her arms, turning away as the sound intensified. A deafening roar filled the air, and she screamed as bits of glass tore into her arms and shoulders.
The roar subsided, followed by the sound of impossibly heavy stones clacking hollowly against one another. Other sounds entered her consciousness: the coughing and moaning of wounded men, a shrill cry for help, the sporadic crack of musket fire.
Ranos dragged Atiana to her feet. Bits of glass tore into the palm of her hand as she steadied herself, but she did not cry out. She refused to let Ranos hear such a thing.
“Up!” shouted the sotnik. “From the wall! Defend yourselves!”
A vanahezhan-the same one that Atiana had seen on the rocky shore-line-had stalked out of the great cloud of dust surrounding the fallen turret and was bearing down on the Olganya. A half-dozen Maharraht followed. Fear welled up within her as she recognized the two from the seashore. Their attention appeared fixated on the eyrie’s perches, however.
The rate of musket fire increased, both from the Olganya as well as from the Khalakovan soldiers, but the hezhan kept stalking forward, its huge arms held up before it as if it could feel the bite of the shots tearing into it.
Ranos pulled a pistol from a holster at his belt. Watching the garden closely, he pulled her before Iaros, who was wiping vainly at the dust on his fine golden coat. He looked up and stared at Ranos for a time before turning his head slowly toward Atiana. His face was smeared with dirt and bits of broken glass littered his graying hair and long white beard. He blinked, and Atiana thought surely he had struck his head, for there was a fresh wound on his forehead. Blood dribbled down his cheek and into his beard-a river of red against a snow-swept field.
Whatever disorientation he felt seemed to vanish the longer he stared at Atiana. “What, child, are you doing here?”
Atiana held her tongue. This was not a question to be answered lightly, not with the Duke measuring her so.
How it was that emotions had boiled over in a single day she couldn’t say, but she was not entirely surprised. Grigory had been beating the drums of war ever since Stasa’s death. Leonid had been of a similar mind, and although Father had nominally stepped within their circle, Atiana thought he would have been able to control them. None of this, however, gave her any clue as to why she had been abandoned.
“I came from Iramanshah, to warn you.”
“The Matra was attacked”-he glanced outside, toward the eyrie-“by the boy your father has stolen from these walls. Did you lead them here?”
Atiana was stunned. He meant the Maharraht. “ Nyet, I came to warn you.”
Iaros looked to his son.
Ranos shrugged. “We heard her just before they gained the wall.”
Atiana could see the muscles in Iaros’s jaw working.
“Please, I came-”
“ Da, to warn me. But”-Iaros turned, pointing toward the eyrie where the fighting had made its way onto the deck of the Olganya — “your father has committed murder within these walls.”
The blast from a cannon rose above all else, but Atiana could not tear her gaze from the eyes of Duke Khalakovo.
He, as well, seemed so intent on her that he barely noticed the world around them. “Your father has stolen away men who were not his. And yet he leaves his daughter here.”
Atiana had always been able to keep a straight face when being questioned. She was as competent in this as Ishkyna and even better than Mileva. But this was different. Truth was on her side, but Iaros wouldn’t believe a word of it.
Her throat had gone dry. “It-” She cleared her throat. “It must have been a mistake.”
“My son is on that ship.”
Atiana swallowed again. “I am sorry.”
Iaros’s expression hardened. He snatched Atiana’s arm and collected the pistol from Ranos and then marched her down the hall. Her heart was already beating heavily, but now she felt it pound within her chest. She felt blood course through her ears. Her fingers and toes began to tingle.
Pulling Atiana behind him, Iaros pushed open the heavy doors leading to the garden. The fighting had subsided. The Olganya had begun to pull away from its perch, while the two ships next to it were fully ablaze. The Maharraht had gained the ship, but as Iaros stalked forward, his grip like an iron shackle, an angry shout spoken in Mahndi came from the Olganya’s deck. A moment later two bodies fell downward beyond the far edge of the ship. They were followed moments later by a skiff.
A flurry of new shots rang out, and Atiana cringed. Two men-Soroush and the other from the beach-leapt from the ship to the perch, the tails of their turbans fluttering behind them like pennants. They landed, at which point one of them crawled onto the back of the other. The two slipped over the side of the perch and were lost from view.
After several more musket shots from Father’s men, all was silence save for the sounds of the wounded and the roar of the nearby fire.
Duke Khalakovo summoned a lungful of breath and shouted. “Zhabyn!”
Several moments of silence followed. Iaros’s grip on Atiana’s arm tightened, and she feared that if her Father did not show himself Duke Khalakovo would simply shoot her like a mongrel dog.
Finally Father came to the edge of the ship and looked down. The ship was beginning to list.
Iaros’s breath came in great heaves through his nostrils. She couldn’t look at him. All she could do was stare at Father, who looked down on her with a steely expression.
Iaros raised his pistol and pointed it at Atiana’s temple.
She could feel the barrel, could feel it in her bones, in every part of her being. Part of her wanted to cringe, to curl up into a ball and pray to her ancestors that the trigger would not be pulled. But she would not-she would stand tall and accept her fate. She was Vostroman, after all.
The seconds passed, and the ship continued to drift. The bowsprit had caught itself in the rear rigging of the ship next to it.
Her brother’s voice bellowed from the deck of the Olganya, “Nikandr, stop!”
And Nikandr’s form leapt from the deck of the ship.
CHAPTER 35
Nikandr’s shoulder flared in pain as he leapt. He grabbed the gaff rigging and slid downward. His hands slipped, but he caught the rope in the crook of his arm. It burned his skin until he slammed into the rigging block, barely catching himself.
He looked up as the heat from the fire below him intensified. Borund stood at the gunwale of the Olganya. A moment later, his father appeared next to him. They were in dire trouble. Without a havaqiram they would be at the mercy of the winds. It was possible to control a ship without a havaqiram, using the keels to control the heading of the ship against the prevailing winds, but the larger the ship, the more difficult it became. The Olganya was no Aramahn skiff, and
would not respond well to such maneuvers.
Nikandr slipped over the side of the ship and made it to the nearby perch. The heat from both ships was strong-so strong that he was beginning to feel lightheaded. He held his sleeve to his mouth. He wished he could run toward solid ground, but the fire was licking the perch closer to the fore of the two ships. There was no way he would make it past them.
He felt something small strike his head. Then again.
He used his finger to probe his hair, worrying that embers from the fire were striking him, but the palm of his hand came away wet. More water fell, primarily on the Gorovna. The water cooled the air just enough for Nikandr to run the length of the perch. By the time he made it clear of the heat he was exhausted, and he couldn’t seem to clear the smoke from his lungs.
Two jalaqiram standing within the stone garden had their arms spread to the sky. Azurite gems glowed brightly in the dim light as they commanded the rain to fall against the ships. Rain hissed and steamed as it struck the Gorovna’s deck.
Nikandr saw Father standing nearby. With the blood along the side of his face, the dirt and glass in his hair and beard, the haggard look upon his face, it looked like he alone had defended Radiskoye against the traitor dukes. He stared at Nikandr with a strange mix of emotion on his face, so much so that Nikandr felt uncomfortable.
Ranos broke away from several soldiers and gave Nikandr a long hug, breaking the spell. “I didn’t know if I would see you again.”
“Nor I you.”
Movement caught Nikandr’s eye. Near the broken doors leading into the palotza, he saw a woman being watched by a strelet. He didn’t recognize her at first-she wore a dirty riding outfit, and her hair was tied back behind her head in a long tail-but it was Atiana. She stared at him with a soft expression, a worried expression. Stranger than the show of emotion, however, was her mere presence. He had thought her gone with the rest of her family. What was she doing here? And what had happened on the eyrie when Zhabyn had been called to the edge of the ship?
Three sotnik and a polupolkovnik came and spoke with Father, and as they did Jahalan and Udra arrived. The skiff that Nikandr had seen returned to him in a moment. “Father, forgive me, but I beg your permission to take the Gorovna.”
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